


ask me to go faster

by eversall



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, but happy endings, set some nebulous time post s3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 15:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eversall/pseuds/eversall
Summary: Life never happened the same way twice, or something like that. Alice sighed and looked at him like she could read his mind, and he didn’t tell her that every time he looked at Eliot he remembered the way that the other man had looked at him on their fifth anniversary in past Fillory, his gaze reverent and warm in the flickering light from the fire, and for the first time since he’d been told magic was real, the shadow in his mind had gone quiet and content, for just long enough that Quentin had felt like he’d gotten a glimpse of the sun..





	ask me to go faster

**Author's Note:**

> idk man this wasn't supposed to be 5k of introspective quentin thinking about eliot, but it be like that sometimes. title taken from call if you need my by vance joy. 
> 
> my [ tumblr ](http://eversall.tumblr.com/). come yell with me about the magicians.

If there was a hell, Quentin thought to himself, this was probably it. Penny always went on about how hell was definitely a lot worse, he had been there, Hades had taken him on a personal tour, he’d dropped off a cookbook to a demon down there who had a library card that apparently allowed house calls – Penny’s stories about the Library got wilder and wilder every time he came to visit, but he swore up and down that they were true, and Quentin couldn’t do a whole lot at that but squint suspiciously at him. But Eliot was dancing with Idri, and there were talks of engagement on the table, and magic was back but Quentin’s wine _still_ tasted like shit and that was really the cherry on top of the cake of misery he was drowning in.

“What’s wrong with you?” Alice asked, and Quentin didn’t say anything even as she rolled her eyes. When she went to pour herself a glass of wine, though, he made an aborted move that she raised an eyebrow at.

“I – I wouldn’t,” he said, making a face, and Alice made a disbelieving little noise.

“Fillory can never correctly reproduce alcohol,” she said thoughtfully, and Quentin nodded, his gaze sliding back to Eliot despite himself. “Oh,” Alice said, and Quentin wished that he had one of Josh’s weed concoctions. Anything to erase the image of Eliot sliding his hand around Idri’s broad shoulders like Idri was a treasure that Eliot was hoarding.

“Josh hid weed around here somewhere, didn’t he?” Quentin muttered to himself. Alice adjusted her crown and looked at him disapprovingly. “Don’t – I don’t need to be lectured by you.”

He got up, and thought he might go track Josh down, but Alice got up too.

“Stop that,” she said sternly, and more than a little meanly, “you’re a _king_ , Quentin.”

He pursed his lips and made a _so what_ gesture at her. The part of him that was left over from that first term at Brakebills, when everything had been classes and the vague threat of the Beast and the thrilling excitement of Fillory being a possibility on the horizon, intermixed with Alice’s hesitant fondness – that part of him that he’d buried deep under layers and layers of sadness to go on the quest in the impossible hope that the quest would have somehow erased it – that part of him wanted to listen to Alice. Wanted to ask her for help. Wanted to kiss her, to just _for one goddamn second_ , relish in the fact that she was whole and alive and breathing in front of him.

Life never happened the same way twice, or something like that. Alice sighed and looked at him like she could read his mind, and he didn’t tell her that every time he looked at Eliot he remembered the way that the other man had looked at him on their fifth anniversary in past Fillory, his gaze reverent and warm in the flickering light from the fire, and for the first time since he’d been told magic was real, the shadow in his mind had gone quiet and content, for just long enough that Quentin had felt like he’d gotten a glimpse of the sun.

.

Running a kingdom wasn’t really what Quentin did; he spent most of the time he _was_ in Fillory either talking Margo and Eliot down from there particularly or out talking to the people and making an effort to change the public tide of perception about them. They’d discovered – through an accidental crop of truth carrots that Josh had unwittingly served at a charity dinner for the Fillorians – that most of the people who had participated in the rebellion didn’t really know who Quentin and Alice were, and while they seemed mostly wary of Alice they took one look at Quentin and decided that he looked like he’d listen.

And he _did_ listen, because more than the others he liked the minute details of Fillory. It worked out; Margo and Eliot played politics, Alice worked on security, and he let people talk at him about the most mundane things. It left enough time for him and Alice to keep taking classes at Brakebills, since they hadn’t technically graduated.

“Graduation? Honey, I have a _crown_. What’s a piece of paper gonna give me that this throne can’t?” Margo had asked when Quentin brought it up. Quentin had shrugged, but Eliot had looked at Quentin like he couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.

“You don’t want to stay in Fillory?” Eliot had asked. How could Quentin explain that he wanted that more than anything, but that _this_ , whatever Eliot and Margo were doing, avoiding Earth and everything they had left behind, didn’t seem like the right thing either?

And where did that leave him and Eliot? They were a Fillory thing, and they were an Earth thing, and the longer they went without talking about the fact the Eliot looked like he was going to marry Idri the more Quentin started to think that maybe Eliot had left behind everything they had on Earth, and maybe Quentin should have too.

.

“Is everything okay?” Julia asked him in the library. He looked up from his notes on Idlemarr’s Kinetic Energy Transfer and shrugged at her.

“Nice to see you out of your attic room,” he said instead, giving her a lopsided grin, and she smiled back, a hint of giddiness to it that he’d never take for granted again. It was a different spark in her eyes these days when she studied magic, more guarded and cautious, but it was still _Julia_ , and he was pathetically grateful that this time they were doing their magic together.

“We have some _great_ window seats though, Q, you’d like them,” she said, and he nodded, tapping the edge of his paper. “Seriously. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” He put his pen down, burying his face in his hands, and Julia waited patiently for him to explain why he _wasn’t_ fine. He let the moment drag on for as long as he could, avoiding the words until he _had_ to talk.

“I want Eliot to look at me,” he muttered through his hands, staring hard at the scratched wood of the table.

“Huh,” Julia said, and she sounded like this was the last exciting news she’d heard since Quentin had excitedly tried to explain to her _why_ it was such a good thing that the Fillorian woodworkers had formed a guild. “Is that – “

Quentin looked up. “We had a whole life together, Jules,” he said, his voice cracking, “and now it’s like we’re life partners, but not the way I want it. I – sixty years, I loved him. Still do.”

Julia was silent for a while, looking at him like she was seeing him in a different light. Quentin felt tired, the phantom ache of old age he’d experienced but not really; the memory of something that had happened in a tangible dream. His heart stuttered in his chest.

“I’m kind of impressed you’re admitting it,” Julia finally said, reaching out and squeezing Quentin’s hand. He shrugged, and she pressed it. “Seriously, Quentin, that’s a big deal. I don’t – I don’t know if I could even face my feelings like that.”

“I had sixty years in past Fillory to figure out how to accept my emotions.” Quentin looked back at his essays. “I learned, and never really forgot.”

Julia nodded slowly. “Then I doubt Eliot did either,” she said, and it sounded so simple when she put it like that.

.

“You do not like me,” Idri pronounced, his voice echoing along the corner from behind Quentin. Quentin jumped, clutching the book he’d been carrying to his chest and peering behind him to see Idri reflected in the torchlight, looking effortlessly regal. He supposed it was something you learned how to do if you were _born_ into royalty and not handed it because a god thought it would be funny, Quentin thought to himself.

Idri moved forward. “You don’t,” he repeated, looking slightly irritated.

“How did you sneak up on me like that?” Quentin muttered. “King Idri – “

“Please,” Idri inclined his head ever so slightly. “Call me Idri.”

_I don’t want to_ , Quentin thought childishly, and then he smothered that thought with the more adult, rational part of his brain – as small and useless as it was - and repeated, “Idri. Of course I like you.”

“Then why do you run from a room anytime I’m in it?” Idri asked, disapprovingly. Quentin felt like he was being interrogated, which he thought was more than a little unfair in his _own_ castle, where _he_ was a king too, damn it.

“Look,” Quentin said quietly, “I’m just an awkward person by nature, so it’s not – that’s probably what you’re picking up on.”

Idri looked unconvinced. Quentin clutched his book closer to his chest like some sort of metaphorical shield as Idri said, “I know that you are important to Eliot and I would like Eliot’s friends to be my friends – “

Like he’d been summoned by the sound of his name said so lovingly by Loria’s king, Eliot materialized at the end of the corridor, his face lighting up as he saw Idri and Quentin.

“Well this is nice,” Eliot said in delight, “it’s like my fantasy threesome coming to fruition. Wait,” he paused when he reached them, his eyes dancing, “you’re not planning a threesome to surprise me, are you?” He asked, looking at both of them.

“Jesus, Eliot, no,” Quentin said, flushing bright red and hating how there was an undercurrent of possessive jealousy in his voice that made it sound less like he’d bene taken off guard and more like Eliot had just suggested they drown Quentin’s puppy. Idri just raised an eyebrow, looking at Quentin in the same way that everyone seemed to be looking at him these days, like he was a puzzle they’d thought was going to be difficult and were instead finding that they could solve with alarming alacrity. Even _Fen_ had given him that look, patting his shoulder sympathetically when he’d rushed out of a state dinner because Idri had _fed_ Eliot a piece of cake like that was something normal that kings did to each other.

There was a smile tugging at the corner of Eliot’s lips. “You didn’t seem so opposed when we were learning battle magic,” he said, and his voice was low and flirty, but then again Eliot’s voice was _always_ like that to Quentin’s ears, rich and like velvet. Quentin _probably_ had a voice kink, something that despite sixty years of co-habitation he’d never explored fully with Eliot.

“That was when we weren’t all royalty and it wouldn’t have toppled a few kingdoms,” Quentin grumbled, but Eliot’s cheerfulness was almost infectious; he found himself smiling despite himself. Eliot’s eyes lingered for a moment, his gaze soft, before he turned to Idri.

“Your son is looking for you,” Eliot said, and Idri started. “He’s having some sort of grown-up tantrum about not being able to go clubbing on Earth because he has to attend some Lorian funeral, I believe. I tuned him out after a while. He’s _rather_ insufferable when he’s being a pig.”

Idri sighed. “I’ll go straighten him out. Or feed him to Margo,” he said wearily, looking more like a tired father than an imposing royal, and for the first time Quentin found himself sort of appreciating why everyone liked Idri.

“Uh,” Quentin raised his hand out of reflex and then tried to salvage the motion by awkwardly tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear. “Margo’s in the kitchens, if you _did_ want to sic her on someone.”

“Thank you,” Idri clapped Quentin’s shoulder, and he gave Quentin a _look_ that Quentin didn’t understand but felt like Idri maybe thought he understood. “You will always have my support, King Quentin.”

Eliot and Quentin watched Idri walk off, his gait sure and purposeful. “Was that just me, or did Idri seem a little intense with you just for telling him where Margo was?” Eliot asked, puzzled, and Quentin nodded.

“Yeah, I don’t really – know what was happening.” Quentin shrugged. “He seems nice though.”

Eliot smiled. “He’s the one royal I actually like – don’t tell the Floater queen I said that.” He raised his hand and cupped Quentin’s cheek, the gesture intimate in the effortless way Eliot always had. His thumb rubbed at the dark circles Quentin knew were under his eyes. “Q,” Eliot said, his voice full of concern, “are you sleeping alright?”

“I’ve had better nights,” Quentin said quietly, and Eliot made a displeased noise, smoothing Quentin’s hair away from his face.  
“That brain of yours keeping you up?”

Quentin swallowed and looked away. “Yeah.”

Eliot raised both hands to Quentin’s face now, cupping his cheeks with fingers so gentle that Quentin could feel something tight and vulnerable coil in his chest, like one of those knots that they taught in Intro to Magic. His heart stuttered in his chest, and for a second Eliot’s eyes were bottomless and unfathomable, drinking in the lines of Quentin’s face like he could drown in Quentin.

Quentin thought of Idri, and the knot in his chest shattered. He grasped Eliot’s wrist and gently tugged it away. “It’ll be okay,” he said, half-convincingly. He smiled at Eliot. “Really.”

.

It was time, Quentin thought, to get over this ridiculous charade. He went to Alice and fidgeted near her until she looked up from where she was reading a book on the couch in the Physical Cottage.

“ _What_ do you want, Quentin?” she asked, but she shut her book with a decisive snap, and Quentin took that as a win.

“You’re the smartest royal in Fillory, arguably,” he began, perched on the coffee table and looking pleadingly at her.

“You said it, not me,” she said, but she seemed pleased. She searched Quentin’s face, and seemed to find whatever it was that she was looking for. “Idri and Eliot aren’t getting married, Q.”

“That – that’s great, I guess.” He fidgeted with the strap of his bag, and then frowned as her words caught up with him. “Wait. Don’t we need that alliance with Loria?”

“Not surprisingly, they’re a little more eager to take an alliance on _our_ terms since we have magic back and all four royals.” Alice shrugged. “Really, our defenses were alarmingly shoddy until I stepped in. They’ll think twice before crossing us.”

“Right. That’s alarming but I guess good.” Quentin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The marriage isn’t the point. I – I need to find someone.”

Alice kept looking at him, as if he was doing something strangely self-destructive. “ _Alice_ ,” he said, his voice half-pleading, and she raised an eyebrow.

“So _now_ you want my advice?” she asked, apropos of nothing, but he knew where she was coming from; it was the first time in a while that he’d came seeking her out, instead of the other way around.

“I – I don’t know how – “

Alice took pity on him, but she looked unsure of herself. “Quentin,” she began slowly, “I just – we need to begin somewhere, don’t we? Aren’t we old enough to try that?”

He’d known for a while now that he missed her, even though she was right in front of him; he missed the way they’d had an easy understanding, something born of a lifetime of being quiet and edges not fitting in the circles other people left behind, just a touch too intense and unhappy for people to like. But now, with her staring at him like she wasn’t sure if he was going to bite her head off or not, he felt how tired he was down to his bones. Eliot hadn’t been the only thing he’d lost on this quest. They were done, and magic was back, and he was still desperately searching for that person the quest was supposed to turn him into.

“Yeah,” he said to Alice, his voice thick, but she smiled timidly, like maybe she understood. “Yeah. I – God.” He looked up at the ceiling, smiling bitterly, and looked back to see that Alice was blinking rapidly, her eyes bright.

“Quentin,” she said, and her voice was soft. “I found your great-granddaughter. It was one of the first things I looked for. She’s – she’s the captain of the guard.”

He inhaled shakily. “Right,” he said, feeling numb. Alice was still looking at him, gentle pity in her eyes.

“It _was_ real,” she said, “whatever you guys had. There’s – it didn’t stop existing because Margo rescued you two. That’s not how magic works. Your children, and their children after that, and – it was all real, Quentin. As real as it gets.”  

.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve taken to staring out some of the highest unguarded windows we have?” Eliot asked lightly, but his hand was white-knuckled where it rested on the pommel of his fencing sword, a ridiculously attractive addition to his daily outfit that Bingle had insisted on, now that Eliot could at least handle the sword without sticking himself in the chest.

Quentin looked at Eliot, uncomprehending, until he took in the way Eliot was nearly glaring, his gaze brooding and wrought with tension. “Oh – “ he startled, and it dawned on him what it must have looked like. “No, Eliot, it’s not that. I promise,” he added as Eliot looked doubtful.  
“Then what _are_ you looking at?”

Quentin moved aside and waved Eliot over, looking down at the courtyard where Wren was reassigning guard shifts. She was young, and the only indication at all that she was related to one of Fillory’s current kings was her nose, which was just ever so slightly like Quentin’s.

“Okay, you’re looking at the Guard Captain. Am I supposed to understand why?” Eliot asked slowly, and Quentin let out a breathless laugh.

“Little weirder than that,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “I’m looking at our great-granddaughter.”

“Our _what_ ,” Eliot said flatly, his voice full of an aguish Quentin hadn’t heard for decades. Quentin watched helplessly as Eliot flattened himself against the window, his brow furrowed and his hands trembling now for a different reason. The familiar knot grew in Quentin’s chest again, the sudden and inexplicable urge to close the distance between the two of them and slide his arm around Eliot’s waist.

“Alice told me,” Quentin said quietly. It was apparently the wrong thing to say; Eliot’s eyes, when he turned around, were bright and sharp with unmasked anger.

“Of course she did,” Eliot snapped, and then he left, turning on his heel and stalking down the corridor. Quentin stared helplessly after him, the knot tightening in his chest until he was sure it couldn’t be unraveled.

.

Penny and Kady blitzed through the castle rooms until they found Quentin in the library; the only indication Quentin had that the two of them were doing their little _thing_ terrorizing the Fillorians by travelling in and out of rooms until they found what they were looking for was the sound of crashing glass and shrieks that seemed to echo and move through the castle. Quentin rolled his eyes and shut the book that had just been donated by the oldest nugget-beetle herding family in the kingdom, leaning against the table and watching as the two of them popped into existence five feet from him, snickering as they high-fived each other.

“Did you see the way Tick just threw his hands up and _screamed_?” Kady asked, letting go of Penny’s hand to fist-bump Quentin. “What’s up, dude?”

“We come bearing gifts,” Penny added, chucking a book at Quentin’s head. Quentin ducked, scowling, and Penny grinned at him. “Compliments of the Library.”

“You both _do_ know that we have a front door,” Quentin said, crossing his arms. “Nearly everyone in the kingdom seems to know how to use it.”

“And as usual, Quentin is a wet blanket.” Penny traced his fingers over the works they had on illusion magic. “Not a bad collection, but you could use a copy of Principles. I would get it for you if I was trying to be helpful.”

“Are you?” Quentin asked, and Penny grinned at him, all teeth.

Kady pulled up a chair. “Don’t listen to Penny, the Library’s very interested in restocking your shelves.”

“I mean, we let them at the Wellspring,” Quentin muttered, “I’m sure they’re _very_ interested in us.”

“Alice has it under control,” Penny waved his hand dismissively. “We’re here to talk to you.” Quentin stared at him blankly and tried to remember if he owed a book that was overdue or something.

“I don’t even have a library card,” he said, bewildered.

“Not _everything_ I do is Library related.” Penny replied crossly, and Quentin stared flatly at him. “Look, man, we’re just checking in on you.”

“Well, I’m…alive.” Quentin made jazz hands, and Kady laughed.

“You know the basement Alice the library has that writes stuff?” she asked.  
Quentin shuddered. Of all the things they’d found on the quest, that remained the creepiest. “I try not to think about that.”

“Yeah, me too,” Penny made a face, “but she sent me some new pages. Apparently, you and Eliot are pining over each other.”

“We’re here to lend a helping hand,” Kady added, making jazz hands right back at Quentin, who immediately felt his mood plummet at the reminder that his time-fucked relationship was now apparently something _everyone_ in their social circle talked about.

He shook his head and said firmly, “There isn’t any _pining_ , and I don’t need a helping hand.” And even if he did, he wanted to say, he wasn’t sure that Penny was the best source for that.

Kady and Penny shared a look, having some sort of silent conversation that involved a lot of Penny making a _not-me_ look with his eyes widened, and Kady meaningfully raising her eyebrow and jerking her head at Quentin. “You guys _do_ know I can _see_ you doing this, right?” Quentin asked, but they both didn’t pay attention to him. Typical, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to be as annoyed as he probably should have been about that. He’d seen how low they’d both gotten, separated, and the vision of Kady, tired and defeated in the county hospital, was something he couldn’t stomach seeing again. Magic was pain and suffering and everything in between that made magicians dangerously unstable, but there were the seemingly unimportant things that it could make beautiful, things like Kady and Penny living their lives together and having silent conversations like a normal, annoying couple.

“Okay,” Penny said finally, turning to Quentin with an uncharacteristically serious look on his face, “I’m not huge on the whole emotional talks with other people thing.”

Quentin threw his hands up. “And I wish you wouldn’t start now,” he said, but Penny ignored that too.

“But you’ve put up with my shit, and you got Kady out of that hospital, and – you believed in magic enough to lead that quest despite all of us fucking it over at one point or the other.”

“That’s not – “ Quentin began helplessly, feeling a lump grow in his throat.

“It is,” Penny said firmly. “You are _delusional_ enough to believe in magic, and that saved everyone, I think. And I know that for everything you went through, you didn’t get to become that person you thought you were going to be from the quest.”

There was silence for a while. Kady was looking at Quentin, her head tilted to the side as she studied him, and she was looking at him with a pity that he couldn’t keep looking at. He felt off-balance, like the world was trying to get him somewhere that he wasn’t sure he could risk getting to. He’d already lived one life with Eliot, and it felt now like he was spiraling because he’d been greedy enough to want another one.

“All I’m saying,” Penny finally said, “is that _you_ deserve to have whatever it is you want too, Quentin. You don’t need to pussyfoot around it, or wait, or – or shove yourself away into a corner so that the world goes on without giving you what you want. You gotta take it.”

Quentin swallowed, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s not that easy,” he said, his voice cracking. He could hear how miserable he sounded, and he looked at his boots instead of looking at Penny and Kady anymore than he had to.

Kady spoke, finally, her voice kind but firm. “It is. You’re allowed to want Eliot, and a life with Eliot. We learned these things the hard way, so just – just don’t be like us. It _is_ that easy.”

.

Quentin went back to Brakebills and stood by the entrance where Eliot had greeted him more than a year ago. He stared, clearly picturing Eliot reclined across the walkway like a lazy, contented cat, his eyes lighting on Quentin with something like wonder. Maybe something in Eliot had recognized Quentin; they had, after all, met each other forty-eight times before that.

There was something about Eliot that was elegant and sensual and endlessly attractive, but it had been the way he’d spoken to Quentin – with just a hint of careless vulnerability – that had made Quentin feel like he was drowning every time he saw Eliot. It was so easy, Quentin thought, to fall in love, but it was much harder to fall in love and want to _stay_ in love with someone, to choose them every day. He wanted Eliot like that, wanted to hold him and wreck him and live to be eighty and cranky and remind him every day that he had to wear his glasses.

He pressed a hand to his eyes and tried not to cry; he loved Eliot, and he didn’t think he’d ever learn how to fall out of love.

.

“I need to talk to you,” Quentin finally said, one night when they were well into October. Eliot looked up from where he was reviewing a report on their crop yield for the month. He looked tired, his curls bedraggled and his eyes weary. He looked like he was going to protest, so Quentin firmly added, “You need a break.”

“You’re probably right,” Eliot murmured, passing a hand over his eyes and stretching in his chair before looking up at Quentin with a tired smile. “What is it?” In the flickering candlelight he looked soft and rumpled, vulnerable without his crown on.

Quentin’s heart was thundering in his ears, reminding him that he was asking Eliot for something more than just a kiss this time. The knot that had been building since he’d first remembered the years they’d spent in past Fillory was large enough in his chest to wrap around his lungs and squeeze, a catch in his breath every time he saw Eliot’s hands and imagined what they’d feel like in his own.

“Okay,” Quentin said, half to Eliot and half to himself, “okay. I’m – uh – I’m going to say something, and I need you to not interrupt me until I finish saying it or I won’t ever finish, I think.” Eliot frowned, looked thoughtful, and then nodded.

“Are you okay? No,” Eliot shook his head, “go ahead. You’ll tell me if you’re dying.” His eyebrows were drawn together, the corners of his mouth turned downward in an unhappy line.

“No, I’m not dying,” Quentin hastened to say, alarmed. He held his hands up. “Promise.”

Eliot nodded. “Good to know.”

“I just – “ Quentin swallowed, and imagined slicing the knot in his chest in half. He thought about the way Eliot had held their son, his gaze adoring and awe-struck. “The first time I kissed you, we were high, and the second time I kissed you, we didn’t talk about it and just fell into a relationship, and now – I don’t want to make the same mistakes.”

Eliot’s frown was back, and this time he looked a little hurt. Quentin, on the other hand, felt like he was flying.

“It’s not that I think what we had was a mistake,” he said quickly, and the frown cleared away. “But this time, I want you to know what it means to me. What, um, what _you_ mean to me.”

And _there_ was what he’d been looking for, flitting across Eliot’s face; that familiar look of unrestrained adoration and longing, mixed with some disbelief. Quentin’s hand was shaking, but he stepped closer to Eliot.

“I love you,” he said, and it was easier than breathing, easier than smiling, “and I want a life with you. I want – I _don’t_ want you to marry Idri, and I want to live our lives together again. I don’t – I’m all in, Eliot. And, you know, you don’t _have_ to feel the same way, but this is me, and – I’m not going to pretend it isn’t, anymore.”

There was a second after Quentin finished speaking where Eliot was frozen, staring at Quentin with wide eyes, and Quentin wondered if he’d just made a horrible mistake, and his heart stuttered in his chest and he thought he might begin crying -  

The next second, with a loud crash, Eliot sprang from the chair and blindly grabbed at Quentin, overturning his chair in his haste. Quentin made an undignified sort of yelp before the sound was cut off by Eliot’s lips descending on his, hard and demanding and urgent. Quentin’s mind shut down, blissfully blank as his body reacted on autopilot, years of kissing Eliot flooding back to him with muscle memory as he gripped the front of Eliot’s ridiculously embroidered tunic and let himself be bowed backward, one of Eliot’s hands gripping his neck and the other splayed across his back.

Eliot kissed Quentin like he’d never get another chance to, not giving Quentin a chance to breathe before he pressed closer and closer. Quentin made a protesting noise, and Eliot drew back to let Quentin wheeze ungracefully, but he didn’t go far; instead he dragged his cheek against Quentin’s, stubble scraping across Quentin’s cheek before he ducked to mouth at Quentin’s pulse point. Quentin shuddered under him, and Eliot tightened his grip in response.

“I thought,” Eliot muttered huskily, lifting his head and staring at Quentin with an unfathomable expression, “that you were going for Alice.”  
Quentin looked at him, bewildered. “You – what?” he asked, and then he tilted his head. “I mean, I can see why you’d think that, but – “

“You’ve always had a soft spot for her, Q.” Eliot said, still looking at Quentin with something intense and unsure in his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if there was room for me.” Quentin lifted a hand in response to cup Eliot’s cheek, tucking an errant curl out of the way.

“I have a soft spot for _you_ ,” Quentin said helplessly, unable to tear his eyes away from where Eliot’s gaze was darkening, a thin line of brown left around his blown pupils. “Alice is – we’re both different people than when we were first together. It’s a whole other thing. _You_ ,” he said, and then he broke off, looking desperately at Eliot, unable to voice how much he wanted anything Eliot was willing to give.

Eliot swallowed, and then kissed him again, his movements still erratic and desperate. Quentin tried to still him, gently slowing the kiss until it was languorous and sweet, and less like Eliot was losing him. Eliot’s fingers combed through Quentin’s hair, finding and discarding his hair tie. Quentin shivered under Eliot, his breath hitching as Eliot pulled gently.

“I thought,” Eliot said as he tore himself away again, this time resting his forehead against Quentin’s and looking troubled, “that when magic was restored and everything, that you wanted your space.”

“You’re my life partner – “

“Quentin,” Eliot said seriously, “we’ve never been together when there _wasn’t_ something large and desperate looming over our heads. Battle magic, and then the key quest – I just wanted you to choose me, and when you didn’t, I thought you were choosing someone else.”

Quentin swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Well,” he said, “I do. I choose you.”

Eliot laughed, and something seemed to lift from his shoulders as he gave Quentin a small smile, his eyes bright and happy. “I love you,” he said, his voice curling low and sending thrills up and down Quentin’s spine. “I want a life with you.”

The knot loosened in Quentin’s chest as Eliot pressed another kiss to his lips and then tangled their hands together, tugging him towards Quentin’s bedroom. The world felt vibrant around him, a lifetime of chances opening up before his eyes as Eliot pressed him up against the wall as soon as the door was locked behind them, unable to wait a second longer as he kissed Quentin again. It was like what everyone had kept trying to tell him with their knowing looks; life never happened the same way twice, but people – people didn’t change. He loved Eliot, and Eliot loved him, and it was one of those things that was true across time and space and everything in between.

“Quentin,” Eliot murmured against his lips, and Quentin grinned and pressed closer, kissing Eliot and slipping his hands under Eliot’s tunic, digging his fingers into the warm flesh of Eliot’s back. Eliot made a disgruntled noise and pulled back long enough to twist his fingers and make a complicated motion. Their shirts vanished, and Quentin shivered.

“Show-off,” he accused, but his voice was ragged, and Eliot grinned at him, spinning him around and pushing him back towards the bed until Quentin’s knees hit the edge and he fell backwards, Eliot carefully sliding on top of him and bracketing Quentin with his forearms.

“Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot said seriously, his voice thick and like honey, “I love you, and I choose you, and I want whatever you’re giving me of yourself in my life.”

“Eliot,” Quentin said helplessly, “God, _Eliot,”_ and Eliot made a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh, and then his lips were back on Quentin’s, kissing him like he was as starved for Quentin’s mouth as Quentin was for his.

And Eliot was right, Quentin thought dazedly as they dragged each other as close as possible, their ragged breathing and low moans echoing around the room, this, _this_ was so much better – choosing each other, in the quiet and the peace, in the moments where they didn’t _need_ to choose each other  - here they were, and it felt to Quentin like coming home, the last part of the quest slotting into place somewhere in his heart.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> _ask me to go faster,_   
>  _put my foot down to the floor._   
>  _standing at the edge,_   
>  _i feel like i've been here before._   
>  _loved you in the darkness,_   
>  _and i loved you_   
>  _in fluorescent light._   
> 


End file.
